Like Fine Wine
by Aku Soku Zanza
Summary: Years later, Eames and Yusuf meet again by chance. An attempted rekindling of their shared flame with nostalgia aplenty. Warnings: Slash and bittersweet angst.


Like Fine Wine

"Do you remember me?"

He was older now—they both were—but Eames' rugged handsomeness hadn't changed. Where there once was smooth skin there now were fine lines, and Yusuf knew that under his sportcoat he wore his scars like badges of honor, a testament to the hardships he'd experienced on the run.

"Of course I do."

Who knew that after years of on-and-off spurts of barely being in contact—always a drunken call from Eames, incoherent mumbling on a phone booth in Istanbul, Moscow, Barcelona, whatever the flavor of the week was—eventually fading out to silence, they'd find each other again? Least of all at some International Dreamsharing Gala on the rocky beaches of Marseille, a convenient way to blow a summer evening.

"I'm sorry I stopped writing or calling," Eames said sheepishly, his hands buried in his trouser pockets. "By the time I was in any state to hold a pen, I thought you would have tired of waiting for me."

"I understand entirely," Yusuf replied, mustering a supportive smile as he sipped at his frosted glass of complimentary champagne. He'd waited for sure, writing hundreds of letters to Eames' ever-changing last known address, always to receive "Return to Sender" in reply.

"I've got it together now, though," Eames grinned, trying to reassure himself more than anoyone. "I cut the gambling, cut the drinking, and you know what, I'm able to hear the word 'commitment' without wincing."

"I'm happy for you, Eames. Truly happy." As if he hadn't heard this before. Every time Eames lit that spark of hope within him, making him believe what he knew to be a broken promise. Every time it stung a little more when he sat up in bed, only to realize he was profoundly and utterly alone.

Eames widened his eyes in excitement, taking a step closer to Yusuf. He really did look good tonight, under the dim lights, dressed in a crisp formal ensemble; it was almost conceivable that he _had_ changed—his face clean-shaven and hands steady as he gripped his wine glass. "So that's it then? We're mates again?"

Instead of accepting his embrace like he longed to do—indulging in the delightful musk of cologne combined with the irreplaceable scent of Eames as they pressed their bodies close—Yusuf parried his advance with a mere handshake. "Right. Mates."

A furrowed brow on his old pal's face. They were friends again: it had been decided. That was the first step, but surely he wanted more. So Eames went all in on his second assumption, whispering low, "You love me still, don't you?"

"If it were prone to decay, I couldn't very well call it 'love,' could I now?" Yusuf turned to the side slightly, as if unable to face Eames directly, admiring instead the dark waves as they lapped at the pebbled shore.

"Fair point," Eames agreed, gulping down the rest of his Merlot for confidence. "I must say, Yusuf, that it's only grown for me: my affection for you. Do you know how many times I told myself to drop the whole shady operation, step out of the illegal extraction business, and return to Mombassa?"

Yusuf was silent.

"Yet I couldn't," Eames continued, "because I am weak. Weak-willed. I am a sucker for immediate gratification, glamour, hedonism. You've known this, too… but you accepted my sorry arse like no one else would."

Yusuf toed a seashell gently with his foot. "Indeed I did."

"Do you remember the things I did back then? Passing out sloshed on a park bench and getting accosted by the police? Didn't get me for stealing the details of the Prime Minister's affair, but you caught me on vagrancy charges, eh, bobbies?"

The two men chuckled in recollection of younger days, brighter days, when the world still appeared so vast and so open to them, ready to be conquered.

"And the time when we foiled the Jenson job on the high speed passenger train and ended up having to jump off to avoid being shot," Yusuf offered. "You were dictating your will to me, in case I survived."

Eames threw his head back in laughter and patted him on the shoulder. "Yes, 'send my pocketwatch to my mum and sell the rest,' how could I forget that?"

"I do believe alcohol impairs memory." Yusuf could no longer mask the amusement in his tone.

"In that case, I'm lucky to remember my own name," he grinned, slowly but surely closing the gap between them, snaking his arm along Yusuf's back to grip him tenderly at the waist. He may have lost years that could have been better spent—that is, in the company of the one who cared—but damned if he were to lose his charm as well.

Yusuf froze up a little, bitterly fighting the spell cast over him. But he made no move to rid himself of Eames' touch.

"I missed you dearly," Eames murmured as he brushed the tip of his nose along Yusuf's cheek—causing an involuntary shudder—to his ear, and finally to reacquaint himself with those lovely dark curls. Sensory nostalgia flooded him with so many memories of times passed, moments forever out of their grasp. "Even if it didn't seem like it at the time."

"You could have let me know you were still alive," Yusuf said softly and regretfully. "Would have been a very welcome courtesy."

"If I could choose anything to go back and redo, from my whole convoluted fuck-up of a life, it would be the instant I decided to leave," Eames admitted with sincerity. "I should have stayed."

_If only you knew how true that was_, Yusuf lamented to himself as a single silhouette approached them from the crowd gathered at the boardwalk. He tore away from Eames, gently but firmly, as reluctantly if he were amputating a limb in the process.

"Eames, my dear friend, I'd like you to meet my wife, Anjali," Yusuf introduced the beautiful woman wrapped in a crimson gown.

He was numb, eyes glazed over in shock. But he went through the motions nonetheless, shaking hands and forcing the most plastic of smiles. They chatted for a while before Anjali tugged lovingly on her husband's jacket, signaling that she was ready to leave.

"Well, it was nice seeing you again, Eames," Yusuf said, empty hollow words. Meanwhile his sorrowful stare communicated one thousand and one ways of saying, "I'm sorry."

"Goodbye, Yusuf." _No,_ I'm _sorry._

"Goodbye, Eames." And he and his wife turned towards the lights of the city.

"Wait," Eames called after the couple. Yusuf turned his head around, startled and fearful of what might follow. Eames looked desperately isolated there, against the backdrop of the endless sea, his proud shoulders now slightly slumped with age, his eyes having lost their old mischievous twinkle.

But his apprehensions were assuaged. Eames raised his empty glass and said, "I'm happy for you, Yusuf. Truly happy."


End file.
